


swear it is sweet

by endquestionmark



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4365542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark/pseuds/endquestionmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants — “What if,” Karen says, and there’s a speculative note in her voice, “what if I just — kept going, would you like that,” and Matt realizes — to be held down, and to not need to worry about what he says, and whether he asks or not, but to be given what he wants until he’s sore and shaking and beyond words. That’s what he wants.</p><p>“Yeah,” Karen says, and smooths her hand up his side until her palm is flat over his heart. “Yeah.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	swear it is sweet

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a long-lost prompt on the [kinkmeme](https://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/) that asked for multiple orgasms and coming dry. "Write me porn," [Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostohelit) said. Here it is.

Early morning, and the city is already noisy in a way that it isn’t predawn, an hour before the morning chorus of the daytime subway schedule and the earliest commuters of the day and the father across the street jostling his daughter into wakefulness for an out-of-district commute. Matt knows the city at three in the morning, when it’s truly still; if New York ever comes close to sleeping, it’s then, when night shift is a drawn-out ache, before the sky starts to lighten, and when the paper trucks and food delivery make their rounds. It’s the most at peace he’s ever been, even hearing and knowing what he does about the city’s hidden bruises, pausing on the fire escape off an apartment building’s rooftop garden, leaves rustling behind him and the city streets empty save shadows, footfalls inaudible and edges blurred by the convergence of mercury vapor incandescence from multiple sources.

Now, though, in the morning, New York stirs, and the streets are undeniably alive: night shift over, morning shift already out the door and in the tunnels or on the streets, and there’s Karen, hair still wet from her shower, rougher than its usual silk-light whisper, and she smells of some artificially muted floral—

“Morning,” she says, and pads over to where he’s still stretched on the bed, sheets mostly lost to the floor, and he stretches up for her, lazy and demanding this soon after waking. “I can hear you thinking from across the room, you know?”

“No you can’t,” Matt says. “I was thinking very boring thoughts, like hoping that Foggy isn’t going to bring back cart coffee.” One: there’s his first lie of the morning, since cart coffee, for all that it’s burnt and bitter and dubious at the bottom of the cup, is just as much _home_ as rush hour.

“Point,” Karen breaks in, “though you’re probably out of luck on that one—”

“And,” Matt adds, holding up a finger, “whether I have time to go over the files from yesterday before work—”

“—lie—”

“—and, oh, I don’t know, that I like it when you sing in the shower?” Matt says, and there’s his third lie of the morning, if only by way of deflection rather than content and as well-intentioned as they come, but a tally on the register nonetheless.

“Liar,” Karen says, leaning in so that he can almost taste the water still on her skin, and says it not as an accusation but almost an endearment.

“What am I thinking about, then,” Matt says, and she swings her legs up, kneels on the bed and laces her fingers into his when he reaches out.

“You,” she says, and there’s the accusation: “You were _definitely_ wondering if we could get a quickie in before we’re late to the office, that’s what you were thinking.” Matt makes a noncommittal noise, and when he rolls his shoulders back against the sheets, she follows to lean closer, such a natural motion that it must be instinctive. “You’re wrong,” Karen whispers, but she does it against his throat, and his pulse jumps at the contact; she smiles against his jaw, and Matt knows this is indulgent of him, but he presses up nonetheless, lets her lean her weight on their clasped hands, press him back and hold him down.

In the quickening morning, it’s easy for Matt to lose himself in Karen’s surety; she presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he turns his head to seek her out. The sheets pull and resettle as she kneels over him, swings a leg over and settles her weight on his hips, still pinning him, but by his wrists now, and as light as she is, he can feel the pressure of her fingers in his radial and ulnar pulse. 

When she bites his lip, Matt can feel his bones shift a little, and arches up into her, a long lateral movement that has her tightening her grip on his wrists. He does it again, and Karen digs her thumbnails into his wrists between his tendons, a sudden deep bloom of pain that has Matt gasping for breath and fighting the reflexive urge to curl away. He focuses on kissing her, instead, and the solid press of her weight and the way her towel has fallen open and scrapes rough along his ribs.

Karen leans harder on his wrists to pull away, hips lifting, and Matt tries to follow her, but the tugging in his wrists — it’ll last, too, a tight and persistent sense of anatomical wrongness — keeps him still as if pinioned, and she grinds her hips against him in tight circles. He wants to touch her, wants to tug her up and lick her open, lose himself in the taste of her and her want, or else tug her close so that he can feel her heart through her ribs, a secondhand rhythm to match, one hand curled between her legs and the other bracketing her face to trace her mouth, following her responses by touch.

That isn’t what she wants, though, at least not this morning; Karen wants to hold him down with one hand on his shoulder and the other — trailing down her chest? the sound of skin over skin over bone, her fingertips over her sternum, is different from the softer sound of her fingers tracing down the curve of her hip, the soft vowel of her breath, and then — where, he can’t tell for a moment, but her heartbeat picks up, and a moment later he can almost taste her as she is, shoulders curved in. Hand between her thighs, then, and the other one digging into his collarbone.

All Matt needs to be, in this moment, is steady, a fulcrum, and he sinks into the thought, sublimates his needs and wants and the ache of Karen’s grip still sharp and twisting in his wrists, while her heartbeat speeds up. Salt, in the air, and sex, and Matt lets himself fall through it all, listens to her shallow breathing and the sound of her fingers and lets her heartbeat fill him up, ebb and flow and flicker until she presses wet fingers to his mouth and lets him lick the taste of her away.

Karen tells him that he’s so good, and so pretty for her, and even through the the insistence of the rush in his ears, the odd disconnect between words and sensation, Matt knows that he’s blushing, face warm and eyes falling closed. She scrapes her nails down his stomach, careful over his scrapes, and he flinches away from and arches into it at the same time, a stutter of movement; when she drags the pad of her thumb up the underside of his cock, it’s the same overstimulation, but pleasure rather than pain, and Matt whines in his chest, hands still by his head where she left them, strung taut between points of sensation.

When Karen finally stops teasing him, it isn’t sensation that draws him out, but need: he needs to be held down, and for someone to aggravate the welts rising on his shoulders and down his hips; he needs her hands on his face and her voice, quiet and assertive, and when Karen positions him with one hand and sinks down, he needs her to hold for a moment, still save for the rush of her breath.

He doesn’t deserve this — knows it bone-deep, the way he knows the city, on a level beyond fact — but here Karen is nonetheless. Here Foggy is, in the mornings when Matt wakes up first. Here, outside his window, is a new day. The pressure of hands on his shoulders, of Karen’s heartbeat, of the trust in the way she traces down his throat and shifts her weight to press next to his pulse for a moment: it’s beyond him, sometimes, but here and now, it doesn’t matter; he doesn’t have to worry about failure, and with the taste of her still in his mouth, he wants so badly to be good, whatever that means.

What it means now is letting himself meet her, with the little leverage that he has. It means letting himself take pleasure in her racing pulse and reflexive grip and the sounds that she makes, breathy and pleased, and the way that, when she comes, she arches hard, hips rocking quick and rough and her grip tight enough to leave crescent marks. Matt holds still, against the urge to arch, against desperation, and when she curls forward to catch her breath, he begs, wordless at first, and then quiet, but no less needy, as she pulls back, a little, tumbles off to lie beside him.

“Come on, then,” Karen says, and wraps her fingers around him, digs the nails of her other hand into his hip and into a half-healed bruise, the same sick thrum of pain and pressure that is fading in his wrists, and jerks him off fast and rough until Matt cries out and goes rigid for a long frozen moment, pressing up, before he lets himself fall loose again and gasps for breath. She doesn’t stop, though, doesn’t let up; she just slows down a little, lets her fingertips drag on the upstroke, and it’s so much that it hurts, maybe, or is it just overwhelmingly good? Matt can’t tell. He doesn’t want her to stop, but he can’t ask her to keep going; he wants — “What if,” Karen says, and there’s a speculative note in her voice, “what if I just — kept going, would you like that,” and Matt realizes — to be held down, and to not need to worry about what he says, and whether he asks or not, but to be given what he wants until he’s sore and shaking and beyond words. That’s what he wants.

“Yeah,” Karen says, and smooths her hand up his side until her palm is flat over his heart. “Yeah.”

  


* * *

  


So: Thursday, after work, and an early afternoon tomorrow since it’s April, warm enough to be bearable but not enough to make people restless, just yet, and Foggy’s pressed up against Matt before he even gets the door open, hands on his hips and chin resting on his shoulder. “So,” Matt says, because he’s flying, the whisper of summer around the corner and a day’s work done well and Karen’s laughter under his skin. He folds his glasses. “What do you think, should we get Chinese? What about that new Ethiopian place down the block?”

“I think if you don’t open that door we’re going to be in trouble,” Foggy says, and Karen laughs again, bright, and Matt finally gets the key in the lock, and they tumble in, Karen kicking her shoes off by the door before she drapes her arms around Matt’s neck, backing him up against the wall. Foggy’s bag hits the ground with a thump, somewhere nearby, but Matt isn’t paying overmuch attention to that, because Karen’s kissing him, unconcerned and unrefined before she presses closer, pinning him from hips to shoulders, and suddenly he can’t catch his breath.

“Wow,” Foggy says. “See, I wasn’t going to _start_ with that, but—”

“Oh!” Karen says, “Oh, really, were you not? I have a hard time believing that.”

“Lies,” Foggy says, and then he’s warm against Matt’s side, one big hand curling around his waist, fingers tracing the small of his back, and he and Karen are kissing, and Matt lets his head fall back and listens to their heartbeats, the shift of fabric and the catches in their breathing. “Lies,” Foggy says, again, when he pulls back, though it’s considerably less emphatic. “I was going to start slow, you know, maybe—” he pulls at Matt’s jacket “—get rid of this, first—” and there’s the rustle of cloth as he hangs it by the door “—and maybe you want to get a head start on this,” he says, running a finger in a straight line down Matt’s chest over his shirt, following his breastbone, pressing harder by his floating ribs.

Matt goes still at that, just lets Foggy trace the curve of his ninth rib, and Karen pushes his shirt down over his shoulders, digs her thumbs just under the jut of his collarbone, as if she’s testing for give. Matt wants to go pliant and let them map him out, treat him as a puzzle and pull him to pieces. “Huh,” Karen says, and tilts his chin up. “Like that?”

He can hear her smile, and Matt bows his head in a nod. “Yes,” he says, low, and she exhales a laugh.

“Hey!” Foggy says. “Continuity, come on, I wasn’t done.”

Karen pulls her hands away, throws them up, maybe, judging by the whisper of air. “Please,” she says. “You seem to be doing pretty well so far.”

“Well,” Foggy says, and tightens his grip. Matt rocks forward, a little, into it. “I was thinking — and this is just stream-of-consciousness, right, so bear with me — what about we, oh, take him over to that couch, hold him down, see how many times—” and Matt realizes, has to catch himself before he slips down the wall, a completely reflexive response. “Citation: Karen Page, that one morning I went and got coffee, never again, by the way, if it means I miss out on ideas like this.”

“You don’t seem to be missing out,” Matt says.

“If you’re being sarcastic at me, then you _definitely_ are,” Foggy says. “Come on—” and Matt doesn’t bother with his arm, just grabs him by the shoulders and walks him backwards until they tumble onto the couch. Foggy had mentioned, once, that Matt walks differently depending on who he is, and Matt had picked up the way his voice changed when he mentioned Matt in his gear, the way that his weight was centered differently and the purpose in his walk. Now, Foggy leans over to pin Matt by his shoulders, one thumb brushing over the dip in his collarbone and tracing up over his throat.

“Come on,” Matt says, “don’t make me be sarcastic again.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Foggy says, and when Matt whines, he laughs and presses open-mouthed kisses to Matt’s shoulders, and Karen, skirt discarded and blouse open, settles on his other side, and digs her nails into his ribs. She scratches, and Matt arches into it, barely breathing — shallow sensation — and when Karen rubs the flat of her palm over the rising welts, he holds a gasp in his chest, a caught moment. “There,” Foggy says, softer, and when Karen undoes Matt’s belt, it’s Foggy who drags light fingertips over Matt’s stomach, who curls warm fingers around him, and Matt pushes into his hand, into the pressure of Karen’s nails and the sore pull of his shoulders, and curls a hand around Foggy’s arm just for something to hold onto.

Matt’s side is marked up already; no sutures this time, at least, but scrapes and bruises, the material evidence of slight miscalculations and the city’s tendency to give no quarter. The first, Matt can learn from; the second, he loves, and wouldn’t change for the world. The scratches layer over a week’s worth of aches, immediate and impossible to ignore, and it feels uncomplicated and good in a way that Matt still can’t trust, but can enjoy, at least. That’s something. Foggy, telling him how good he looks, and Karen, showing him how good he is, and it’s easy for Matt to push into his hand, to have this, and when he comes, he gasps at how simple things can be, if he lets them, and how he wants them to be, at least for now.

Foggy doesn’t stop, though. He eases up a little, because when Matt pushes through the shock of overstimulation, he can’t help but jolt, but there’s nowhere for him to go, caught between them. “You good?” Foggy says.

“Fuck, fuck,” Matt bites out. “Yes, God, please — fuck—”

He can smell it, can smell Karen, and he wants to touch her, and this time he has his hands free, so Matt reaches out to run a hand down her side, feel her shiver at his touch and, when he presses two fingers between her legs, rubbing through fabric, she jolts and grabs his shoulders for support, and that helps, too. The brief bloom of pain, the sounds that Karen makes when he pushes the material aside and works his fingers into her, slower than she likes but careful: “Good,” she calls him, and Matt can’t help the way he’s gone taut, body all lines and strung-out curves.

Karen leans up to kiss him, and she tightens a hand in his hair, pulls him down to meet her, and Matt wants to beg, wants to pray, wants anything. She bites his lip, and Matt’s still being careful, but Karen grabs his wrist and holds him still and shoves up against his hand, demanding and unapologetic, and Matt lets her have it, have him however she wants, until she gasps and jerks against him, holding him until her hips are still. Her heart is so loud, and then she presses Matt’s wet fingers to his own mouth. 

Foggy speeds up, and Matt thinks about him watching them, about the way he must look, and it’s too much. It’s too much and it’s perfect and, the second time that he comes, Matt can’t keep quiet, must sound as if he’s in pain as he arches off the couch.

He can already feel the way he’ll ache tomorrow, residual soreness that he’s used to in a completely different context.

“Hey,” Karen says, and he realizes that she’s stroking his throat, up along his jaw, cupping his face in both hands. “Hey, you’re so good, look at you, look at you—” and this is ridiculous, Matt shouldn’t be blushing, but his face is hot, and he wants to turn into her voice like warmth in sunlight.

“Please,” he says, because — he’s good, but he wants more — it’s the only way that he knows how to ask.

“We’ve got you,” Foggy says, and curls his fingers at the nape of Matt’s neck. “You’re good, come on,” he says, and Karen slides off the couch, skin on fabric. Matt feels her settle between his legs, presses at the bruises on the insides of his thighs — that one, a bite mark from a week ago, deep and slow to heal; that one, the edge of a rooftop ladder — and Matt can’t help it: he throws an arm over his eyes, doesn’t want to think about what his face must look like. He gasps for breath as she presses kisses to his stomach, the crease of his thigh, digs her thumb into the skin under his hipbone, and when Karen finally, finally licks her way up his cock, closes her mouth around the head, Matt thinks that he must be crying, awful raw sobs.

Foggy takes Matt’s hand, and wipes away his tears with his thumb; Karen’s being kind, maybe, slow and gentle, and that’s much worse than if she hadn’t been. Matt doesn’t know what to do with kindness, and thinks that if she keeps going, he’ll die, but if she doesn’t, then he’ll break apart, a hundred mirrored pieces and no substance at all.

Foggy’s hands are warm, and solid, and Matt feels like the only thing that isn’t real in this room, and Karen has him pinned down at the hips. He can’t go anywhere, can’t run the way he does sometimes when they’re in the kitchen, cooking, or bickering over the news, and he suddenly remembers that he can’t have this, as much as he tries or wants to, the common denominator in a life of lost chances and choices that he doesn’t know that he’s strong enough to make.

He’s started shaking at some point, involuntary and restrained. There aren’t any choices here, nothing for Matt to do but feel, and respond, and ache, unable to tell his heartbeat from Karen’s, or Foggy’s, or the rumble of the subway. Matt thinks that this is what, maybe, it means, to have the things that he wants but is afraid of — people he loves and who love him back, inexplicably — but when he comes, even that much is beyond him, and it rushes through him and leaves him still, and hollowed-out, in the long moments before he comes back to himself.

It’s slow, feeling his way back into residual aches and warmth and a laziness that seems to have settled in his bones, and Matt luxuriates in it. “Rise and shine,” Foggy says.

Matt flips him off.

“Be like that,” Foggy says peaceably. “Oh — fuck—”

“No, feel free to keep joking around,” Karen says, a little breathless, and Matt becomes aware of the way they’re tangled next to him, skin on skin and clothes half-undone. “I can just hang out here all night, no rush or anything.”

“Please?” Foggy says, and Matt can hear his grin, knows the tease of that tone, lets the hollowness in his ribcage ebb just for a moment — and then another — and listens to Karen’s laughter and Foggy’s smile, and still doesn’t understand, still doesn’t deserve it, this, them, but thinks that he might be all right with having it anyway.

 


End file.
